Snow continued to fall outside, thick and muffled, swallowing the world in quiet white. Inside the tent, the fire flickered weakly, casting trembling shadows on the canvas walls. The cold seemed to seep into everything - the air, the floor, the space between you all.

You tossed another log onto the dying embers. Hermione didn’t look up. She was curled in the corner, half-wrapped in a blanket, reading Hogwarts: A History like it held some secret path back to a time when Christmas didn’t feel like a funeral. You sat down across from her, sitting close enough that your knees nearly touched when either of you shifted. Neither of you moved.

The tent flap zipped open with a sharp snap. Harry stepped in, boots heavy with frozen mud, cheeks flushed with cold and something darker - frustration, maybe even betrayal. Without a word, he shrugged off his cloak and sank into the far corner, folding into himself like he could disappear.

Hermione’s fingers tightened around her book. She glanced at Harry, a flicker of worry passing through her usually steady gaze. Then she rose quietly and draped a blanket over his shoulders, the gesture soft but heavy with unspoken meaning. Harry didn’t respond - didn’t even meet her eyes.

You shifted beside Hermione, the air thick between the three of you. Your glance flickered between them - Harry so withdrawn, Hermione so fragile, and yourself caught somewhere in the middle, alone but unwilling to break the silence.

“Christmas Eve,” You stated quietly, voice almost swallowed by the cold. “It's like we forgot about it.”

Hermione pulled her cardigan tighter around herself, eyes never leaving Harry. “It does. But how do you celebrate when everything’s… broken? When Ron’s gone and…”

Harry cut her off, voice low but sharp, like a blade slicing through the fragile quiet. “There are worse things than broken holidays. We have to keep looking. Godric’s Hollow is next. We can’t wait any longer.”